'Go on—go on.' His face clouded and his eyes hardened.
'In the paper it doesn't matter a bit. It is—it is—later—when they come out all together in a little volume—with—with——'
'Go on, I say.' He sat upright, his chair half turned, his hands on the arms, his face severe and judicial.
'With your name on the title-page.'
'Oh! that is troubling your mind, is it?'
'When the critics praise the poems and praise the poet—oh! is it right, Mr. Feilding? Is it right?'
'Upon my word!' He pushed back his chair and rose, a tall man of six feet, frowning angrily—so that the girl trembled and tottered. 'Upon my word! This—from you! This from the girl whom I have literally kept from starvation! Miss Effie Wilmot, perhaps you will tell me what you mean! Haven't I bought your verses? Haven't I polished and corrected them, and made them fit to be seen? Am I not free to do what I please with my own?'
'Yes—yes—you buy them. But I—oh!—I write them!'
'Look here, child; I can have no nonsense. Before I took these verses of you, had you any opening or market for them?'
'No. None at all.'